Children of the Revolution
by Figure
Summary: V for Vignettes. A kind of short story, detailing the tales of the few children who play in the movie. Chapter 1: Tom Malone, just an ordinary boy, is changed by the masked man's message...


November the fifth.

November the fifth... Thomas Malone knew it had had some meaning once, but it vanished back into his head, ancient history, just as he recalled it. The only thing that remained was a feeling of significance, importance... Well, it would be given new meaning now. The masked man who had replaced sports on his television would make sure of that.

Tom, as he preferred to be called, did not think of himself as extraordinary. Quite the opposite. He considered his family and life average in every way. He was in seventh grade, had a younger sister who drove him mad mostly, and two never-understanding parents who interfered in his life just enough to get him annoyed once or twice. He worried about acne, grades, and girls (though he'd never admit it) and had a close group of friends. In appearance, he was perfectly ordinary – dark brown hair and eyes set in a freckled face, normal build, and acceptably casual clothes when he wasn't attending the private school his parents had applied him to. In short, he looked, spoke, and acted much like everyone's typical teenage stereotype. He'd probably grow up to be a typical middle-class businessman. Never destined to shake the foundations of mankind, or rock the boat in any manner. Just... normal.

Tom mulled over this as he idly flipped through the channels. Barely pausing to register what show he was discarding before he changed it, he only stopped when his mum yelled "Keep that thing on one show, Tom, or you're washing the dishes tonight instead of Rob!" Rob was their father, often absent on company trips and seminars; though he was sitting not two meters away at the table, he didn't look up from his newspaper at the threat of impending chores. Mum was in the kitchen, as usual – Tom caught the tantalizing smell of ravioli before their plug-in air freshener whisked it away through a miniature fan. Its insistent humming was drowning out the buzz of newscasters, fisherman, chefs, and talk-show hosts as they each spoke about a second's worth in turn.

"I said, keep it on one show!" she cried again, and Tom quickly dropped the remote on the sofa. Emily snickered at him from her study-spot on the floor. She was dutifully doing her homework while Tom channel-surfed, and thus gaining extra Goodness Points from their mum. Tom scowled and threw himself backwards on the couch while the sounds of a football game blared through the house.

The triumphant sounds of sports announcers drilled themselves into Tom's brain. "And it looks like Menderson has the ball - but what's this? A new attacker? He fumbles in a moment of confusion -" _Fzzzzzz_. The screen went blank and fuzzy with static. Tom sat up, blinked, and frowned. "Mum, what's wrong with the telly?" he demanded, sounding like Emily when she wanted a new toy – as if she knew any more than he did.

Emily looked up. Her mother approached the television, wiping a hand over her forehead. Tom moved forward to smack the antennae around but – "No," Mum said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Tom stared at her, confused, and she seemed understand, for she whispered "The emergency channels. There must be something wrong."

Tom saw the worry in her voice then, and in her face. Once, she had told him, she had been a Norsefire supporter. That was before the party really came into rule. Their leader, or rather dictator, Adam Sutler, had terrorized the citizens into following his every orders and hanging on to the sound of his spokesman's voice. Mum spoke in hushed tones about riots and protestors disappearing under the black bags of the Fingers, and how intolerance was raised to a dangerous level, where being out of the ordinary could be fatal. The younger Monica couldn't accept that, but by then it was too late. Now she was living with a husband who was never there and two children that she worried about incessantly; she was always waiting for Rob to come home, his face creased with grief, and announce that one of her dearest brood had vanished. For whatever reason – Creedy's Fingermen were more often breaking the law than upholding it. Monica Malone had never gotten over the fear that someday, someday Tom or Emily would see one of the Fingers breaking an arm or pocketing a white package, and then...

But something was happening. The screen jumped into focus and Tom's eyes had to adjust to the smooth coordination of red and black on the screen. The set was elaborately dressed, as was its sole occupant. The man in the mask. That bone-white, eerie mask with painted-on features, a sharp nose and chin, and a brisk moustache and goatee. The eyes were black holes and the cheeks, paradoxically, glowed with rosy color. This was not an emergency broadcast. This was... something else...

And then he began to speak. Deep, sonorous tone rolled across the Malone's living room. Even Rob put down his newspaper and stood up, looming over the edge of the couch to see the developments. The man – or Tom assumed it was a man, because of that low and hypnotizing voice – spoke of crime. Of oppression. Of scare tactics and revolution. Tom couldn't help but notice, as he did inconveniently at such times, that the logo in the corner bore the sign "**V**TV" and also, more disturbingly, that Emily's and Monica's eyes were rooted to the screen. They were drinking in his every sound and gesture, watching the telly like he usually watched his afternoon comedy shows. Then he paid attention to this man's insane, rebellious words, and to his profound surprise, found some part of him agreeing.

Wasn't it true? Wasn't it all true? How their government had offered solutions to the problems nobody knew were there? How they had offered safety in exchange for their liberty? Wasn't this the reason that Mum lived with the anticipation of death? Why two dark-skinned Muslim boys had been taken out of school last year, never to return? Thomas Malone, called Tom, just an ordinary boy, felt his heart stir in approval of these decisive judgments. He dimly perceived his mother clapping a hand to her mouth when the man calmly pointed her towards a mirror to look for blame, but he was too engrossed in the words, and the power and feeling behind them, to notice for more than a moment before the deep thunder of V's voice spread even further into his brain, soaking into his consciousness, invading his very soul...

"Tom."

Rob had walked into his son's bedroom and closed the door behind him with an audible click. Tom jerked his head up, breaking the steady stare he had been giving the deck outside his window, and stood. His hands found his pants pockets and jammed themselves in there; he faced his father mutely, wondering what lecture he would be given this time.

"Tom..." Robert Malone passed a hand in front of his eyes and sighed. "V – the terrorist... he's dead. They shot him right after that broadcast."

"I know." Dull, flat, his voice bounced around in his head, becoming stranger and more alien than before. He wished his throat wasn't so dry. Maybe he should have come down for dinner.

"Do you, Tom?" Rob asked quietly. "Because I really want to know. If you do, I mean. Because I get the feeling that next November you'll be slipping out of this house and marching up to Parliament with the rest of them and I do not want my only son to be blown to pieces by the Guard."

Tom registered the words blankly, without a reaction. His mind seemed muffled by the echoes of V's speech inside of him and he tried to comprehend what his father had said. Hadn't he been there? Hadn't he heard that mesmerizing voice? What was he trying to do, then, keeping him away from freedom?

He struggled against the glue sticking his tongue to the roof of his mouth and managed to mumble, "V... was... right. This government... is wrong. You know that... as well as I do."

"I hardly knew that you had realized it at all, much less recognized it myself," Rob admitted. "But I want to make sure you knew what you were getting yourself into."

Tom blinked. Something seemed to have unstuck his mouth. "What?"

"You know, then, what's wrong with our glorious High Chancellor?" This question, full of dry weariness, seemed directed as much at Rob as it was to him.

"My sister..." He stopped, tried to start again, and sat down abruptly on the room's single chair. He leaned forward, cradling his straw-haired head in his hands, and breathed deeply. Finally, he began again, more slowly and with greater care. "My sister was at Livingston; she was shot by one of the defenders there. I have never stopped worrying that one of you – yes, even Emily I worry about – will go out and do the stupid things Hannah did. You were only three and I was already worrying. I should be brave, and do the right thing, and support V's little revolution, because I know that England is corrupt. I know that more than most people my age and in my position. But I can't. I try, but I don't try hard enough. And for that, I'm sorry." He was speaking in a low, quick voice now, staring at the floor as Tom sat heavily on the edge of his bed. "This place kills people. Not very fast and not very much, but slowly, slowly it kills. I could have left once but I didn't – now I have you and Monica to take care of and I just can't go. But you" – and here he looked up at last, staring straight at Tom, matching blue-green with brown – "you are still young. You can be forgiven and you have a brave heart. Tom -" He was shocked and terrified to see a tear leak out and trace its way down to a stubbly chin.

"You'll let me go?", barely more than whispering.

And no quieter than a grasshopper's landing, "I cannot do anything to stop you."

Tom's eyes widened and stared at his dad, searching for any sign of deceit. There was none. His eyes followed Rob as he stood up and opened the door, exiting with a last sigh. They didn't stop, even after he had disappeared down the visible stairway, but simply lingered on the spot where his father had been. Surely this was not happening.

But as he watched the doorway and remained mute, he realized that just once, he felt lucky to have a future.

_If I can make it last..._

A dark chuckle from that side of him that wanted revenge. This was a revolution, and he was a part of it.

_I, too, will fight._


End file.
